


ween mixtape: the marcus parks method of falling in love

by ficfucker



Category: Last Podcast on The Left (Podcast) RPF
Genre: Angst, Arguing, Break Up, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt, Flirting, Groping, M/M, Masturbation, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Passive-aggression, Pining, Semi-Public Sex, Slow Burn, stupid movie references and some vague serial killer facts based on half assed research
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2020-09-24 22:09:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20365891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ficfucker/pseuds/ficfucker
Summary: marcus parks is just trying to podcast and research. he doesn't have time for feelings. especially not feelings for ben kissel, of all people.





	1. oh my dear (i'm falling in love)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chap title from ween
> 
> (all will be ween songs or lyrics)
> 
> 'tell me where you come from, was it heaven above?  
oh my dear, i must be falling in love  
can you climb the sunny peaks of a fortress in mud?  
oh my dear, i must be falling in love  
did i tell you i want more than you're really made of?  
oh my dear, i must be falling in love'

After a near sleepless night littered with internet rabbit hole diving, almost mania inducing masturbation sessions, and chewing through about 3 packs of gum, Marcus Parks is not exactly excited to be trudging into the studio. Ben will surely be late and Henry will be loud over Skype, probably shirtless and cackling, and Marcus isn’t prepared for either of those things. Most days he can handle the madness of it all, but recently, he’s been feeling on edge and tired, can’t get a grip on himself, no amount of nicotine or sugar able to tame it. 

He pats the front pockets of his jeans for his keys, finds them, sticks the toothed metal into the door knob. The studio is empty, as expected, and Marcus goes to his usual chair, starts to set down his stuff: book bag which has notes for today’s recording and his laptop, his coffee, his breakfast sandwich (which is certainly cold by now), silver packaged rolls of pez candy because dammit, Marcus needs his sweets. He sits, scrubs a hand over his face, and checks his phone. 

A text from Ben. He’s ashamed to admit it to himself, but seeing the name glowing on his phone perks him up a little, makes his shoulders drop from their defensive, tight position. 

**Ben**: _ Running behind. Sorry about that. Be in the studio in about 10. _

Marcus rolls his eyes, because he totally called it, but at least Ben has decided to send him an update, which is a little out of the blue. None of them are really organized, just showing up whenever they show up, slamming out a session, and parting from there, with sporadic calls and emails in between. Marucs smiles smally, types back a response. 

**Marcus**: _ Already in the studio. Door’s unlocked for you. I’ll be sure not to vape you out. _

Marcus starts in on the mics, checks the audio, all the usual shit. He digs out his notes, sets up his laptop. As he works, he wonders idly what Ben will be wearing, probably some stupid grahic t-shirt under an unzipped hoodie, a black jacket over that, which has been his look lately. Marcus is in one of his several Ween shirts with his favorite plaid, purple and white, over top, some regular blue jeans, Dahmer-style glasses. 

Studio prepped for recording and a half a roll of pink pez later, Ben comes in, greets Marcus with a drawn out “Heyyy”. 

“Get lost on the subway or some shit? Latest you’ve been in weeks, man.” Marcus hands Ben his headphones as he sits across from him. 

“Thanks. And uh, no - just - some dude who’s a fan of the show stopped me and oh my God, he _ wouldn’t _ stop yakkin’, wanted to talk politics. Even when I said I-I was on my way to recording, he kept trying to talk to me.”

“So what you’re saying is it’s not your fault?” Marcus calls Henry, casts it to the monitor hanging to his right. “That you _ weren’t _ hung over and sitting on the toilet for 20 minutes eating chips and wondering if it’s all worth it?”

Ben opens his mouth to answer when Henry, in all his bare chested glory, projects onto the screen and promptly slaps his tits, yelling, “Whazzup, fuckerrrrrs?” He pauses, squints down at them. “Jesus, Marcus, you look like _ shit _ today. Men in Black finally get you in your sleep or what?” 

Marcus scoffs a laugh, shakes his head. He’s not ready for the energy Henry is about to bring to this, which is odd, since more often than not, it’s Ben who gets him nerved and annoyed. “Rough study night is all. Got a little _ too _ into the groove of things. and Ben’s typical tardiness sure isn’t helping my mood.”

Henry hollars, shouts, “Yeah, Dogmeat! Get ‘im! Call that long, tall bitch oooout!”

Marcus' head throbs and he quirks an eyebrow at Ben. 

“If it’s typical why are so upset by it all of a sudden?” Ben asks, smirking. “Wouldn’t it be worse if I showed up ten minutes early and ruined your alone time?” 

Marcus rolls his eyes, headphones on, prompting the two others to follow his lead. He casually hits record, likes to get an interesting opening and what Henry said would’ve been a good starter, but he’s missed it. 

Time to sink into radio personality mode. 

“Good enough point, I do like my 10 minute break from you stumbling in hung over talking about how Puffin was yipping in his sleep last night because he was dreaming.” 

Henry snickers and Ben scoffs. 

“Okay, well, just so you know, Puffin _ was _ dreaming last night and his leg twitches were adorable and you’d _ know _ if you ever went on Instagram-”

“Oh right, Ben, I’m sorry I’m too _ busy _ studying fuckin’ _ mothman _ to watch your dog videos!”

Ben snorts through his nose, making a face, and for a quick second Marcus actually has the thought "Oh, that's cute", before it leaps away, leaving him wondering where in the world it came from. 

"Are we recording or are you two going to bicker any longer?" Henry asks. 

Marcus says, "We've been live." 

“Anywaaaays, I’m your host Ben Kissel here with the ever sleep deprived but still on his game, the beautiful, the wonderful, the Men in Black’s most wanted: Marcus Parks,-”

“Hiya, Ben.”

“-Hi, Marcus,” Ben continues, face scrunching up with a genuine smile. 

Once again the "That's cute of him" thought ghosts Marcus' mind and he reacts like he's zapped, grasps his coffee, takes a long sip like he can physically wash it down, take it down like a bitter pill. Henry and Ben trade equally confused looks, but don't comment, Ben still on the introduction. 

“And with us today, as always, blessing us with his _ very _ naked torso is your favorite returning guest-”

“Widower William ‘Fucked Her to Death’ Harrison!” Henry chimes and Marcus, who should be used to it by now, is so caught off guard, he busts out laughing, almost spills his coffee in his lap. 

“Fucked her to _ death _? Mr. Harrison are you saying-”

With a warbly Southern drawl, Henry says, “Yeeeup. Gal was only 4’11 and this big, bulging pipe a’ mine done did her in.”

“4’11?” Marcus asks because now is his chance. “Wouldn’t that make her only… 3 inches taller than you?”

“Oh, fuck offfff,” Henry laughs, dropping the accent. “Talk any more shit, Marcus, I’m gonna climb all over you like I’m a fuckin’ weavel, starting chewing them bones of yours like they’re grass stalks.” 

Ben and Marcus both erupt with laughter, shoulders shaking, and Marcus wheezes, mood already starting to shift over to a brighter outlook, less annoyed with his friends than expected. 

“Okay, well, I think Mr. Harrison has-has uh, left us here so now we can get into a topic I think is actually kinda fun! The Mothman!” 

Marcus opens his mouth to agree, explain a slice of background on the cryptid when Henry cuts in and says, “Mothman with them big ole thick ole muscles of his, tight, tight - ohhhh so black skin - glowing fuckin’ red eyes, lookin’ like me after taking the fattest rip of the best stinkweed money can buy. It’s our fuckin’ man of the hour, terror of small towns: Mothmaaaaan!” Henry drums on his bare chest again, the slapping loud and distinct. 

Marcus slips a pez under his tongue, nods along, takes the reigns, "Yep, finally taking chance to cover Mothman in full, which I've been wanting to do since oh man, the Men in Black episodes, since they come in a whole bunch but honestly there’s - there’s a lot more to Mothman than people think.”

“Like stealin’ dogs and scarin’ the elderly!” Henry says. “Actually - sounds a lot like you, Kissel.” 

Ben steals one of Marcus' pez. "For the record, I've never stolen a dog. The elderly… well, they usually have poor eyesight or are a little - if they're not all with it, they think I'm bigfoot." 

"Well, today isn't for bigfoot," Marcus says, taking the opportunity to redirect them to the proper topic. “It’s reserved for the Mothman, one of the better known American cryptids, especially in recent years, similar in popularity to Bigfoot, the Chupacabra, or the Jersey Devil, but like most cryptozoological stories, there is a darker, scarier side to the origins of Mothman than all the cute little fanart that we’ve been getting tagged in on Instagram.”

From here, Marcus switches on autopilot, checking his notes and volume correcting when Henry raises his voice above a yell to a shriek, humoring Ben with answers to his questions like, “So is Mothman really attracted to lamps like the memes say or is that a negative stereotype?” During it, Ben points at Marcus’ half eaten muffin sandwich and Marcus pushes it towards him with a shrug, watches him carefully nibble at it so his mouth is never full when he has to speak. It reminds Marcus of a bird, taking small, concise jabs. 

After well over 5 years of recording with Henry and Ben, Marcus has gotten good at going on numbly with an episode when he’s too tired to think straight, and before he knows it, they’re hailing various figures and their fans, plugging liveshows. 

“I think we need another good old fashioned Mothman sighting soon,” Ben remarks, almost seeming dreamy over the idea, once Marcus has stopped recording. “Been too long since we’ve had an official report.”

Henry rolls his eyes audibly, but Marcus giggles. “I think he’s hiding. Needs a boost of radiation or cocaine to shake him out.” 

They talk a few minutes more before Henry says his goodbyes (“Okay, see you two bitches later.”), signs off, hanging monitor soft blue with the Skype home screen, which Marcus closes and powers down. 

“Any exciting plans the rest of the day?” Ben asks, standing and cracking his back. He takes the empty silver and pink pez wrappers and tosses them in the trash nearby, smiles over at Marcus. 

“Oh, uh, nah. I mean - Jackie was talking to me about doing some skit or special soon and needin’ some sorta help, but other than that…” Marcus shrugs, unplugging things. “Probably jus’ goin’ home and figuring out what comes next after you and Henry put out the next side stories.” 

Ben nods. “Well, the downtime is good, right? We’ve had a real busy week and touring is coming up quick on us again.” 

“Mmm.” Marcus stands, his legs and ass numb from sitting so long, and gathers his shit, shoves it all into his bag. “What about you? Got anything good for Side Stories brewing?” 

“I think it’s going to be pretty UFO centric. Big surprise. But there were those lights down in Florida that everyone is crazy over and I’m _ sure _ Henry is going to be on that for a while.” Ben goes to the front door, holds it open for Marcus, closes it behind them, and lets Marcus be the one to lock up, lingering close behind him as he does. 

“Oh yeah. Government said it was new airplane testin’. Like we’re supposed to believe that shit.” 

“Yeah. I’m sure Henry will have words to say on that.” Ben laughs, shakes his head. They start down the stairs together, Ben to the left of Marcus, taking two steps at a time. “Oh! Got another offer to be on a paranormal show, though! That’s pretty exciting!”

Marcus grins, but he’s tired. He’s thinking about going somewhere to get a big burger with a side of sliced pickles, maybe a tall Coke to satisfy his sweet tooth. “No shit? When’s it my turn to talk paranormal, I’m the one who does all the research.” 

Ben opens the glass door that leads to the street, and he smirks, cheeks rounding to apples. “I think it’s because when you check us out on Google, I’m the one most often wearing a suit.” 

Marcus snorts. “Oh, so you mean to tell me putting myself out there in skeleton makeup and fake blood _ isn’t _ a good look to guest on ghost shows? Shoulda told me sooner, man. I woulda cleaned up my act to get on daytime television.” 

Ben claps a hand on Marcus’ shoulder playfully, gives him a jostle. “I doubt me dressed up a beer bottle screaming at an audience does me good, I think it’s just the luck of the draw.” 

And then Ben and Marcus are going their separate ways and Marcus is not just thinking of the burger he’s going to get, but also when he will next see Ben, just the two of them without Henry, as he makes his way towards the trains. Probably soon. It makes his stomach flip and drop, and ignorant, fearful, he chalks it up to being overworked, under rested, and hungry. He puts his headphones on, shuffles his Milk and Peppers master playlist, and smiles to himself, Cock Sparrer being first up in queue. 

  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  


**Ben** : _ Pink or blue? Which says credible ghost scientist more? _

_ [Two photos attached. Ben in a pink suit. Ben in a blue suit.] _

Marcus looks up from the last few pages of The Mothman Prophecies to check his phone. He’s in a small corner restaurant, enjoying his burger at a single table, plates clanging from the kitchen, people buzzing with talk around him. He draws some Coke from his straw as he clicks the two pictures, compares them side by side. Ben’s standing in a full length mirror, phone small in his large hands, dressed in surprisingly nice suits, pale pink and powder blue, black dress shoes on. He looks nice, cleanly shaven, smiling dorkily. 

**Marcus** : _ Well. Blue suit makes you look like a teen going to prom in the 70s, but the pink makes you look Gatsby when Tom implies he’s a homosexual. _

**Ben**: _ Jeez, Marcus, so glad I came to you, my BEST friend, for advice. _

**Ben**: _ And FYI, I may not be the smartest, but I’m pretty sure the original text is about Tom accusing Gatsby of not actually attending Oxford college. _  


Marcus snorts, carbonation going up his nose, and he sets his book down on the edge of the table to give his attention to his phone and his food, absently chewing some fries. 

**Marcus**: _ Well. F. Scott Fitzgerald was definitely a closeted man, bisexual or otherwise. I think the Great Gatsby was supposed to be a homoerotic metaphor more than about the American dream. _

**Marcus**: _And pink by the way, before you yell at me for derailing. It compliments your tones better. _

Dots appear and disappear several times and Marcus sets his phone down to take a bite of his burger, which is about halfway eaten. He wants to finish his book, but he knows as soon as he opens it, gets a paragraph in, his phone will chime off with a text. He eats a couple more fries, chases it with his Coke, which is watery now, and Ben gets back to him within another minute. 

**Ben**: _ You really think the pink? Won’t it make me look redder on camera? _

  
_  
_ **Ben**: I got the part on that ghost show, by the way, in case you couldn’t tell. 

**Marcus**: _ Congrats, Ben, and fine. Don’t take my aesthetic choices. _

**Marcus**: _ Does my sense of fashion mean nothing to you? _

Weirdly, it feels like Marcus is flirting, in an odd, teasing way. Him and Ben and Henry always talk like this with each other, goofing off, never a straight answer, busting each others’ balls, but today something is off and it excites Marcus secretly, a deep down electric feeling. 

**Ben**: _ First of all you own more graphic t-shirts than I do, Mr. Aesthetic Fashion Sense. _

**Ben**: _ Second of all, you’re a literal dirt man. Even if you did dress to the nines, I still wouldn’t be able to take your opinion seriously. _

Marcus finishes off his plate and sips his Coke idly, almost done with that too. 

**Marcus**: _ If you don’t take my opinion seriously, why did you ask for it in the first place? _

This shuts Ben up again, little grey bubble blinking with dots before shrinking down, which gives Marcus enough time to clean up his table, pay his bill with a decent tip, and thank his server, head out onto the street with his playlist resumed and book tucked safely in his bag. 

Marcus has gotten through the turnstiles and is waiting for his train home when his phone goes off. 

**Ben**: _ Maybe I just wanted someone to show off to. _

_ [photo of Ben lounging on his couch, legs spread obscenely wide, in his pink suit with reflective aviators on, phone lifted high above him with one arm at a cocked angle, tongue barely slipping out between his lips.] _

Marcus exhales sharply through his nose and glances around to see if anyone is looking at him, embarrassed enough that he might as well have just been sent a nude. He clicks the photo, studies it like a specimen, and casually holds down with his thumb, saves it to his gallery. 

**Marcus**: _ You look like a jackass. _

  


* * *

  
  
  


Marcus waits a good long time to text Henry. He reads the rest of the Mothman Prophecies and cross checks his notes with other sources, browses Reddit from some obscure articles in archives, binges a couple docu-series on Netflix. 10 pm New York time (7 pm for Henry), Marcus decides is good enough, and he carefully considers his words. He wants to come off as naive and casually curious rather than his fear of appearing overly interested and knowing too much. He sits on his couch, fingers hovering over his keyboard for several minutes before he finally types out a message and hits send. 

**Marcus**: _ You hear that Ben is going to be on another ghost show? _

**Henry**: _ Big lump does nothing but ask shitty questions on the podcast and he’s chosen to do interviews? Where’s my MUFON recognition? Slap me up on prime time for yelling at sky orbs. _

**Marcus**: _ I think I’d be most ideal for television. Won’t have to put me on a apple box to be in frame, but won’t have to pan up 20 feet to fit my head in shot either. _

**Henry**: _ Perfect height, but unlike me and Kissel you look like a goddamn ghoul. I bet the heat readers wouldn’t even pick up your trace, you fuckin’ snake man. _

Marcus laughs once, a little relieved by how easy it is to talk to Henry, but he’s still got Ben on the mind, and Henry didn’t exactly answer his initial question. He ponders wording again, trying to figure out the best way to bring up the photos without revealing just how much Marcus received during lunch. 

**Marcus**: _ See the fuckin suit he plans on wearing? _

**Henry**: _ A SUIT TO BE ON A PARANORMAL SHOW? KISSEL REALLY IS A DOUCHE OH MY GOD. _

Well, that confirms an answer for Marcus: Ben has only sent him the photos. It makes him feel both excited and nervous, special, almost, that Ben picked him, but dirty because it is somehow different than all their other conversations. He scrubs a hand down his face and grabs his vape, goes onto his balcony to spit clouds into the night and clear his mind before bed. 

Even without acknowledging it head on, Marcus has a sneaking suspicion that something has changed in their dynamic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes i love these insufferable assholes 
> 
> kudos + comments appreciated
> 
> will try to update often but we'll see how it goes
> 
> talk to me on tmblr @ficfucker


	2. i fell in love today

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'i feel like a million bucks  
nothing could break my sway  
you people can't touch me   
i fell in love today'

Marcus sees Ben the next day at the Adult Swim studio for their live stream. He comes into the room, greets Travis and Ben, both of whom are looking down at their phones, Ben already seated behind the table. It’s Ben’s mandate tonight and Marcus feels wired, has had all this energy in him since that morning, and as he takes his place next to Ben, he wishes he had grabbed a smoke break before coming in to soothe his nerves. 

There are 5 minutes until they’re live and Henry’s connection hasn’t come in yet. 

“How was uh, the ghost interview thing?” Marcus asks, hoping he sounds casual. He hasn’t been this nervous, hasn’t worried about being this awkward since middle school, and somewhere in the back of his mind screams for him to calm down, it’s just Ben. 

_ ‘And who’s Ben?’ _ he thinks to himself harshly. _ ‘Your best friend.’  _

Ben perks up and gives Marcus a smile. “Oh, really good! I’m not sure how much they’ll use of what I said but eh, I think it’ll be my longest segment yet.” 

Travis gives them a “Dude, nice,” from his spot behind the cameras, and they both smile at him. 

“That’s great, Ben!” Marcus congratulates him, giving him a slap on the back, and Ben chuckles, eyes scrunching shut with his joy, looking kind of like a jolly Santa in a Norman Rockwell painting. 

Ben looks like he’s about to say more, probably a thank you, when Henry blinks onto camera and the audio floods with him grumbling about his headphone wire not lining up with his laptop for some reason. 

“Hey, Henry, lift the tinfoil hat. We can’t hear you out in New York,” Ben says.

Henry snaps his head around, gives them a grimace, and says, “I literally think I got fuckin’ _eggroll_ _bits_ stuck in my headphone jack and the audio is- Fuck! Are you kidding me?” He puts both hands over his face, groaning, and drops his palms to the table, shaking his laptop around in an attempt to get whatever it is lodged inside out. “You fuckers got it more together over there than me or what?”

“Well, considerin’ I’m not wrestling with my computer, I’d say I’m doing just dandy, Henry, thank you for asking,” Marcus replies, smirking. 

Headphones crooked over his ears, Henry says, “You sound like you’re scuba diving in a tin can, Dogmeat.” He blows aggressively on his headphone jack, making a loud whooshing sound that get Ben and Marcus both wince. 

Someone offers him another laptop and Henry exits view, arms thrown up in frustration, and Ben and Marcus both giggle. Travis gives them a countdown, which means they’ll be starting without Henry, or rather with Henry swearing and yelling faintly from what his mic can pick up where it’s been left on the table. They sit up at attention and look into the camera, waiting for Travis to give them the thumbs up. 

When he does, Ben initiates things with, “Hellloooo, stream! Uh, it’s just Marcus and I right now because Henry is - he’s having some _technical_ _difficulties_ out in his studio-”

“He got eggroll crumbs in his headphone jack,” Marcus says blankly. The audience deserves to know. It’s so on brand for Henry, it’s almost painful. 

“Well… while Henry sorts himself out, Travis could you put up that video of the Great Dane I shared with you?” 

Travis does, and Marcus watches for a minute, amused, but he drops his attention down to his phone, opening Adult Swim to check chat since Henry is still off camera, filtering through the colorful comments, which are mostly just a mix of “HAIL YOURSELVES” and “ben mandate!!” with some emojis thrown in. 

Midway through Ben’s dog video, which he is enthusiastically explaining, Henry comes back with a new laptop and a fresh A&W, plops himself down in his chair, and greets the chat and the boys.

Marcus inquires, “Everything straightened out?”

Henry laughs and shakes his head, popping the top to his soda, a sharp crack followed by a subtle fizz. “ _ Nope _ . I fucked my  _ entire _ headphone receiver port fuckin’ thing with Chinese takeout!” 

Ben and Marcus laugh and the video of the great dane fades, cameras showing all three of them seated in a row. 

The rest of the stream goes as usual: Marcus bringing up a weird fetish or two from time to time, Henry getting out of his chair to lift his shirt up or his shorts down, ranting about the government and celebrities, Ben playing his videos without realizing they’re all 5 year old memes everyone and their aunt has already seen 12 times over. Marcus finds it cute in an innocent way rather than annoying or repetitive, how Ben will play a video, be informed of its age, and simply say, “Oh well, it’s still nice to watch, ain’t it? I just thought it was a little fun.” 

There’s only about 6 minutes left of stream time when Ben gives Marcus a nudge with his elbow and says, “Marcus, I picked this one with you in mind,” and Marcus sits at attention, a big smile unfolding on his face, too big maybe, catching a glimpse of how childishly excited he is in the monitor. 

The video is a digitally animated clip of Donald Duck dancing to various songs, style changing each time the music switches over, and Marcus claps his hands together, mouth hanging open with a wheezing giggle that doesn’t seem to end. 

“Oh! I love it!” he squeaks. 

Ben smiles at him and says the name of the YouTube account that uploaded it, Henry saying something into their headphones, but Marcus is still caught up in watching on screen, colors flashing brightly, music running. Most mandates, Ben plays at least one or two things specifically chosen for the guys, but for whatever reason, Marcus is deeply touched, heart fluttering in his chest. 

Travis lets them know to wrap up, so they say their goodnights and goodbyes, chat sputtering out “HAIL YOURSELVES” and “TRIPLE L” and with Marcus looking down at his phone, he catches one user send: “aww ben always thinking of marcus is so cute <3”. It flusters him so much, he flicks his phone off like it’s on fire and he stares blankly ahead. 

He really needs a smoke now. 

Ben lingers around talking to Travis and Marcus slips out, goes out and around back to puff on his Juul for a moment, leaned against the cool brick of the building, trying to ignore the smell of piss and sun-rotten garbage. He feels like he’s losing his mind, suddenly so enamored by Kissel. Fucking Kissel of all people. Marcus would probably being going through the several stages of internalized homophobia if he was 10% less self aware, comfortable in his attractions and sexuality, already having indentified as pansexual in the past. 

The thing that makes him feel so unnerved is the fact that it’s Ben he’s inexplicably lusting over. If cupid exists, he has bad aim, Macus thinks, exhaling. He tries to rationalize it: that Ben is tall and that’s attractive in a foreign way, since Marcus is usually the tall one in relationships; that Ben is his coworker and close friend, so they’re always together and Marcus is simply misidentifying platonic affection; that Marcus is experiencing the worst acid trip of his life and he’s not even aware of it yet. 

Marcus is still thinking hard when Ben comes around back, sees Marcus, and smiles. “Hey, I was lookin’ for you. Wanna come over Thursday? Figured we could have some Buds and chill before we have to pack up and head out for tour on Friday.” 

Marcus blinks. “Oh, sure, man. I might be with Jackie for the morning, but-”

“No worries. Just text me so I know when to wrangle Puffin and dust off the couch.” 

Marcus smiles, heart feeling achingly soft, because goddamn, what a sweet, dorky thing to say, but he reigns it in, doesn’t let his mind drift. “Sounds like a plan then,” he says, pushing off, away from the wall, putting his Juul in his pocket. Ben doesn’t like to see him smoking, vape or otherwise, and he feels oddly guilty that Ben’s found him out here doing just that, like he’s been caught killing a child. 

Ben claps him on the shoulder and they walk together towards the street. They’re both probably going to get Ubers. “It’s a date then.” 

Startled, Marcus nearly flinches. “It’s a date,” he echoes. 

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  


Wednesday, Marcus stays locked up in his apartment. Him and Henry and Ben talk in their groupchat, about touring and episodes and everything else, but he doesn’t talk to anyone else one on one the whole morning. He drinks four cups of coffee by 10 am and chews through two research related books for Last Podcast, stacks of journals and scattered highlighters and dog eared pages tornadoing around him. He cancels on his therapist for tomorrow, planning to be at Ben’s by 5 pm, meeting with Jackie for scripting for a short film she’s working on prior to that. 

Keeping busy feels like the only option. It feels like home, too, overworked and near frenzied being the setting he’s most used to being on. If he has even a single moment to let his thoughts creep away, he knows he’ll obsess over them. He always does: repetitive and hair pulling, will sit on the floor in his underwear and self destructive. 

It’s 4 pm when Ben messages him. He notices the text, phone screen illuminating with Ben’s name on screen, and he raises an eyebrow, doesn’t let himself read the body of it. 

As if punishment to show restraint, rather than pouncing on his phone like he’s been waiting all day to talk to Ben, Marcus goes into the kitchen and cleans all the dirty dishes he’s been wanting to get to, but has had no drive to tackle. He plays the Violent Femmes and hums along, focuses on the filmy feeling of soap and water. 

He dries his hands when done, goes to the living room to sit on the couch. 

**Ben** :  _ Any ideas what we should eat tomorrow? _

**Marcus** :  _ Since when do we ever plan dinners?  _

**Ben** :  _ Well. I want it to be like a special thing. A before tour celebration or something.  _

**Marcus** :  _ Without Henry? _

**Ben** :  _ We could Facetime him if you want. I’m sure he’ll have no trouble finding food in California to digitally share with us.  _

Marcus doesn’t really know what more to say in response without it sounding like he wants to be alone with Ben, because he does, so he leaves his phone on the coffee table and goes back to research reading, immerses himself completely into the blood and guts world of animals killing people, which is their next topic. They’ve done torture and worst ways to die, but Henry had suggested the Travis the monkey case which they’ve covered briefly in the past and Marcus has run with it: expanding to bears, moose, hyenas, everything gruesome he can think of. 

Mental images of faces being torn off and turned to blended spaghetti are a good block from thinking that him and Ben are having a stay home date tomorrow night. 

That lasts Marcus until night, browsing the Internet for other pieces and stories, several messy Google docs opened and jammed with notes and citations. He retires to his room at 8 pm, extremely early for him, but he sits at his laptop, a beer sweating on his nightstand. 

“Jesus Christ,” Marcus mutters, slipping out his basketball shorts and boxers, peeling off his shirt. He props his laptop on his chest and lies back in bed, opens Pornhub. 

He tries ‘6’7 tall man’ which yields results of Amazonian women only, so he edits his search to ‘tall man’. That gets him a little closer to what he wants and he scrolls through the pages for a while, sips his beer as he does. He doesn’t need the porn to help him get there, his cock is already hardening on his thigh, but he wants a visual, wants to see a man of Ben’s stature naked to aid his imagination. 

Marcus settles on a video of a tall brunette with a shadowing of facial hair fucking a much smaller blond, strokes himself lazily at first. His breathing hitches when the shorter man on screen straddles the taller, nameless man, looks at him with an air of confidence. He jerks a little faster and before he knows it, he’s frantic, bucking up into his fist and panting, video filling his room with obscene moans and wet kissing, the slap of skin, and one handed, he keeps rewinding back to a certain scene: the taller man holding the shorter by the hips, his face all twisted up in pleasure, so much so, it could probably be misconstrued as pain without the proper context. 

“Oh, Lord, Kissel,” Marcus hisses and even to himself, he sounds annoyed, irritated. 

He pushes his laptop aside, closing the lid, and he shuts his eyes tight as he strokes himself hysterically in the dark, picturing Ben writhing and moaning underneath him, both their bodies slick with sweat. It doesn’t take him long. He shoots off roughly, cursing and groaning, streaking all the way up to his chest, almost his nipples, and he lies there, heaving and boneless. 

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Fuck.” 

Marcus is still in his post orgasm haze trying to convince himself all people jerk off to the thought of fucking their friends senseless (right?) when his phone chimes from somewhere under his pillows. He searches around with his left hand, finds it. 

**Ben** :  _ Goodnight Marcus :-)  _

[ _ Photo of Puffin asleep in his little doggy bed, legs sprawled carelessly underneath him. _ ]

Marcus sighs, drops his phone into the sheets, and stares at the ceiling in the dark, city making noise from outside his window. 

“Man, oh man, if you weren’t going to hell  _ before _ ,” he whispers to himself, “you certainly are now.” 

**Marcus** :  _ Goodnight, Ben. Goodnight, Puffin. _

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  


“Hey, Puffbear, down!” Ben scolds, hurrying over to grab his dog and scoop him into his arms so he stops jumping on Marcus’ leg, who isn’t much of a threat at all considering how small he is, not even coming up to Marcus’ knee. 

Marcus scratches under his chin and Puffin goes placid, lolled in Ben’s arms like a rag doll, tongue hanging out like he’s smiling. “Hiiii, Puffin. Long time no see, little buddy,” he greets in a silly voice. 

Ben smiles and doesn’t let Puffin go, gestures with one hand to the kitchen, and Marcus follows his lead. On the table are two pizza boxes, a side of breadsticks, a 6 pack of beer (which Marcus know he will not be touching), and a big bag of unopened chips. 

“Jesus, man, what is it, my birthday?” Marcus jokes. 

Ben sets Puffin down, who immediately circles around and through Marcus’ legs, tail wagging aggressively. “Listen, I wanted a reason to get a whole pie and not feel like it’s because I’m struggling with alcoholism and depression for once.” 

Marcus chuckles, gets himself a plate from the cabinets. “Amen to that.” 

They sit on the couch and eat, talking about politics and social media and the upcoming tour. Marcus assumed they were going to Facetime Henry like Ben had suggested yesterday, but Ben doesn’t bring it up, so Marcus doesn’t mention it, selfishly pleased that they’re alone together. Ben drinks a couple beers and Marcus settles for ginger ale. They play Red Dead for a while, but Marcus bores of it easily, and switch over to Skyrim, play around with that for a while, Puffin lying by their feet, waiting for pizza crust or dropped chips. 

It feels both date-ish and also extremely like they’re just two guy friends hanging out and playing video games. Normally, they invite others over for this kind of thing, Holden at minimum, Henry is he’s in town. 

“Hey, you wanna stay the night?” Ben suggests while he fucks around with character creator, exaggerating the features as much as he can.

“Uh. I left my shit at my place, man.” As if that’s ever stopped him in the past. Marcus has slept in dirty jeans on Ben’s couch about a million times before and he’s not one to protest, but the idea of staying with Ben now, after jerking off to him like Marcus’ life depended on it has him feeling a little hesitant. 

“Yeah, well, you also leave shit around here all the time, too. You’ve got like, an entire wardrobe of dropped shirts, I’m sure.” Ben laughs. “And I got an air mattress the other day, too-”

“Jesus, what for?”

Ben explains, “After the tour is over, Henry wants to stay in New York a few days longer and I said he could bum here instead of hot boxing a hotel and gettin’ kicked out again.” 

Marcus nods along, laughs. “Oh, then uh, I’ll stay the night. Better than tying to catch the train this time of night. Everyone’s getting off work.”

Ben goofs with Skyrim for a while longer before they get bored and flick on Netflix, deciding to watch the X-Files. Ben takes Puffin into his lap and baby talks him and Marcus feels his stomach sink, pulls out his phone to distract himself from Ben cooing at his dog like an infant. Marcus doesn’t get hard from it, but he still imagines himself burning in Hell, which he’s positive is going to be a recurring thought for a long while. 

An hour later, Ben and Marcus are in Ben’s bedroom, Puffin sleeping in the living room. Marcus unfolds the air mattress and figures out the automatic pump pretty quick, sits on his heels as it inflates. 

Ben comes in from the bathroom in a pair of American flag boxer shorts and his favorite Halloween shirt. He flops onto the bed and peers down at Marcus like they’re bunk mates at sleepaway camp and smiles, asks, “Gonna be comfy down there?” 

Marcus pats the mattress with one hand, says, “Think so. Thing feels pretty firm.” 

They settle in and Marcus listens to Ben breathe deeply just a foot away from him. His heart quickens, thinks about what would happen if he crawled in next to Ben, what he would say, if he’d react with disgust. He folds his hands over his heart and exhales. He’s going to have to come to terms with it sooner or later: the obvious budding of attraction to Ben, whether lust or love, infatuation or incorrectly labeled brotherly affection. Why torture himself with it? Not every crush ends in a relationship and not every relationship results in genuine love. 

Marcus isn’t hurting anyone if he has a crush, will hurt himself more if he refuses to acknowledge it. 

“Hey, Ben?”

“Mm?”

“How many active serial killers are in New York right now, you think?”

Ben groans and it dissolves into a laugh. “There will be one extra if you keep asking questions like that.” 

Marcus giggles, shifts in bed so he’s on his side facing where Ben is. “If you kill me you still have two more to go to be considered a serial killer.”

Ben is quiet a moment, like he’s truly considering it, and he says calmly, “I’ll get Jackie and Henry for good measure.” 

“Aww, how thoughtful,” Marcus coos, snickering, “I won’t be alone in the afterlife.” 

Ben laughs and Marcus can hear his bed creak, the rustle of the sheets being moved. “Nope. Wouldn’t want you getting lonely when you’re dead.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> got some upcoming angst so be ready :-) 
> 
> talk to me on tmblr @ficfucker


	3. make a move, man (state your case)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'feel the grip of your salvation  
this is indeed a tender situation'

The next month and a half pass Marcus by in a flash: first waking up in Ben’s apartment and frantically shuttling between apartments to pack, no time to think about Ben’s bedhead or the domesticity of having breakfast together (even if just toast), and plan with Henry, and from there on he’s boarding planes, checking into hotels, bopping around on stage, and spending nights in bars with Ben and Henry after shows. It all has a manic, quick energy to it, no downtime to sit and think about his feelings for Ben, and he’s thankful. 

The live shows are all hits: good responses at venues, posing for pictures with fans who bring weird and wild offerings like voodoo dolls and paintings made from their own blood, loud laughter in crowded bars. Him and Ben have an excuse to be close then; bumping into each other when toasting their drinks, getting into personal space on stage for the sake of a bit or joke, sharing hotel rooms, with or without Henry depending on the night. Every time he’s about to get caught up in his thoughts for Ben, they’re moved to something else: on a bus, on a plane, getting clapped on the shoulder by Henry and shook around wildly. 

It’s their last night of tour and then they’ll be in their hotel one last time, to grab their shit, then headed back to New York with Travis as their driver. Marcus has a good buzz going, a couple of beers in, and he keeps looking over at Ben with what must be the most obviously love-struck, tongue lolling out expression, but he doesn’t care. He’s done good with holding himself together for all this time: never once allowing himself the room to become obsessive and cynical, no lingering hand touches that can be named as overtly sexual. 

A little tipsy and proud of himself for being on such good behavior, mentally and physically, Marcus decides he’s earned the right to ogle at Ben like the big cut of chuck steak he is.

“Jesus, Dogmeat, you’re really goin’ for hammered tonight, aren’t ya?” Henry exclaims, leaning in close and yelling into his ear. There’s some football game going on the wall mount televisions that Ben has been engrossed in the whole night, and the bar is getting rather noisy over it. 

“Jus’ celebratin’ another good tour done!” Marcus shouts back, body tilted over so he and Henry’s arms are flush against each other. “Can’t wait to get home and be in my own damn bed for once!”

Henry laughs and lifts his drink, clinks it against Marcus’ in a sloppy toast. “Amen to that!” He takes a sip and Marcus watches him instead of Ben for the first time the entire night. “‘Cept I’ll be stayin’ with Kissel the next 3 days before I’m back out on the West Coast,” he adds, seeming as though he’s just remembered. 

“Ohhh yeah. The air mattress he got for you is a good one.” Marcus drains down his beer and twists off the top to his next one, angling himself again so he can watch Ben and pretend he’s watching the game, which is so out of character of him, the alibi wouldn’t fly with anyone. 

“Oh yeah? Test it out for me?” 

Marcus nods and “uhuh”s. “Ben had me over before - before we uh, headed out for tour and I tried it out. Real quality shit, man, like, best night sleep you’ll get next to Ben, I bet.” 

“Sound any dreamier over it and I’ll  _ really _ be thinkin’ yer jumpin’ those Sasquatch bones.” 

Marcus laughs and chokes, sputters his beer back into its caramel bottle in a fizzy spit, turns to raise an eyebrow at Henry, only an inch from him. “What the hell does that mean?” 

Henry grins and gives Marcus a nudge in the side, his eyes knowing and smug, and he raises an upturned palm, shrugs a shoulder. “Listen, Dogmeat, yer a smart fuckin’ guy - best researcher I know and more dedicated to our study than - shit,  _ anyone _ I ever met, but seriously, you’ve been drooling over Kissel like he’s a-a gourmet jar of pickles for weeks now.” 

Henry takes a sip of his drink, points a finger around it at Ben, whose back is turned to them to watch the game at the bar, sandwiched between two fans they met up with a couple hours back. “What I’m saying is: you’re smart with books, with  _ myurdyer _ , but as soon as you’ve got a crush? Might as well slap a glowin’ LED sign -  _ blink blink, blink blink _ \- on yer ass that says ‘Reserved Parking: Ben Kissel Only’ with the way you’ve been lookin’ at him.” 

Marcus can feel the nape of his neck get hot, the collar of his flannel suddenly too tight around his throat, and he laughs, wheezy and nervous, regrips the cold glass of his beer. “Henry, that’s-”

“Too fuckin’ real for you right now?” Henry laughs, throws an arm over Marcus, slaps him heartily like brothers or sportsmen do. 

“Waaaay too fuckin’ real, man.” Marcus feels a little deflated, like he’s been caught sneaking skin mags into school, but at the same time, he feels wildly relieved, because it’s Henry who’s noticed and he hasn’t (yet) called him a carpet muncher or size queen. “Am I that obvious about it? I thought I was keepin’ myself in check pretty decently.” 

“Well, I  _ do _ applaud you for your act. Might give me a run for my money if you ever hit auditions, but tonight? Clear who your dick is wet for. Doesn’t take a detective to figure that one.” Henry jabs a thumb in Ben’s direction dramatically. 

Marcus giggles despite himself, sighs. 

Something happens on the televisions and a wave of cheering washes through the bar, Ben throwing a fist in the air. 

“Honestly, though, man? I’d say shoot your motherfuckin’ shot.” 

Marcus’ eyebrows go together, furrowed, and he finishes off his beer, reaches for the last one on the table, thinking he’ll order another round whenever the offer presents itself. His knees are starting to feel loose in a really good way. “Whaddya talkin’ about, Henry?”

“Just - ugh. Like, what’s the  _ worst _ that could happen?” 

“Oh, I could name _several_ _hundred_ things right now, if you’d like me to.” Marcus pats around for a water he knows he has on the table, bumps into some bottles that clatter and spin out on the table and he snickers, mutters, “Shit, sorry.”

“Christ, dude, you’re plastered already,” Henry laughs, straightening the bottles and passing Marcus his glass of sweating water, ice cubes almost completely melted. “And don’t hit me with that Murphy’s Law shit. Objects aren’t victim to thought, we’re not giving - conspiracy theory has no hold here.” 

“Yeah, well, just the big one, right? The conspiracy theory that Ben is straight as a rail.”

Henry snorts, drops his arm away from Marcus to hold his drink in both hands. “Have you  _ seen _ his mustache? If that ain’t a nut duster-”

“Henry, oh my  _ god- _ ”

“What? You see where I’m coming from, don’t you? He looks queer as a three dollar bill.” 

Marcus shakes his head, knuckles at his left eye. “Oh, that’s jus’ wishful thinkin’ on my behalf.” 

“I’ll-I’ll make sigils for you! Fuckin’ chaos magic Kissel into wanting that goblin rod you’re packin’.” Henry pats Marcus on the back, fatherly in his gesture. 

Marcus snorts and mutters, “What a  _ waste _ of magic.” 

They argue playfully back and forth a few minutes more and Henry grows bored of his drink, passes it to Marcus who swallows it down while he’s gone to take a piss, leaving Marcus relatively alone except for all the drained bottles set out on the table like dominos. Marcus is thankful no fans were dead set on being around him tonight, more interested in the game than talking murder. He’s really working towards sloshed now, would probably make an ass of himself if someone even asked him about BTK with how watery his brain feels. 

He watches Ben again, traces the soft lines of his back through his thin jacket with his eyes. Marcus wants to knead his fingers into the doughy skin of his arms, curl around him like a snake coiling. 

Instead, he clears his table best he can and waits for Henry to come back from the bathroom. 

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  


Henry calls shotgun when Travis comes along to round them up and drive them back home and Marcus knows exactly why. It forces Ben and him to sit in the back, some kind of middle school logic that if they sit near each other, they’ll hold hands or spew a big love confession. Equipment and personal suitcases are piled high in the left seat, so Marcus takes the middle, Ben to his right. 

Henry turns around in his seat and flashes a toothy grin, waggles his eyebrows. “Hey, Dogmeat, you know what they say about Bigfoot?”

Marcus hiccups and is about to answer when Ben laughs, says, “Big socks?” 

They all crack up like hyenas, nearly doubling over, wheezing and coughing, and Travis shakes his head, tells Henry to put his seatbelt on as he twists the key. 

The car smells like booze and sweat, so Travis rolls all the windows down. The night is cool, cutting in and washing over Marcus’ in refreshing curtains that bathe his face, and he presses his cheek up against Ben’s shoulder, closes his eyes, leans in closer to where the open window is. An excuse. He just wants some air, is all.

He was just watching the game, is all. 

He can feel Ben glance down at him and an excitement rises in his stomach.  _ You’re pulling a Nilsen,  _ Marcus thinks to himself, a little sadly, a little dreamy, his mind swaying.  _ Hoping he’ll take you like a blushing virgin corpse and fuck you senseless.  _

Ben doesn’t say anything so Marcus stays where he is, pressed to him contently, Henry and Travis chattering in the front seat about jobs prior to now, and lulled by this; the warmth of Ben, the gentle movement of the car as it runs, Marcus dozes off. 

  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  


Marcus is out for a while, is awoken when they stop under the bright lights of a toll booth, and he blinks his eyes open, glances around in a daze, hair curling and sticking to the nape of his neck. Travis is passing an older woman in a blue vest a fistful of quarters from the rolled down drivers window, Henry’s on his phone in the front seat, face lit blue-white from the glow of the screen, car flooding with a shocking yellow that makes Marcus briefly wonder if this is high strangeness; if they’re going to pass Greys doing construction work a mile down the road and consider it normal. 

The radio is playing something indistinct, a commercial, knob cranked down politely for their brief stop, and as they pull forward, small debt paid, Henry flicks it back up, starts switching through the channels looking for something. The lights trail away behind them and the car is draped in the familiar darkness of driving at night, blanketed with a blue-blackness speckled with the yellow and white of passing headlights. 

Marcus yawns and knuckles his left eye which is bleary. 

“Mornin’, Sleepyhead,” Ben chuckles quietly. 

Marcus looks up at Ben, smiling down at him, still pressed close to each other, and asks, voice groggy and deep, “Mm. Wha time issit?” 

From the front seat, Henry answers, “About 2 am. We still got a while to be driving.” 

Marcus nods and runs a hand down his face, reaches blindly for the bottle of ginger ale he knows he has somewhere on the floor, leaning down to sweep his hand around, and that’s when he notices it. Ben’s got a hand to his hip, holding him, large palm cupping his side. He finds his drink, sits up. His head aches dumbly. 

“Ben…,” he says in a cautious whisper. 

Ben doesn’t say anything, just looks back over at Marcus with a softhearted smile that twitches his mustache up, face shadowed and gentle in the darkness. Marcus thinks, hazy, that he looks like Uncle Buck. 

Marcus uncaps his ginger ale, takes a long sip, screws the green plastic top back on, and mutters a low, “Fuck it,” before unbuckling his seatbelt, brushing Ben’s hand aside, who makes a kind of soft, surprised, “Oh?” sound. He unfolds himself and shuffles over, spreads Ben’s thigh, nestles between them, and Ben gets the idea, wraps his arms around Marcus’ small waist, not arguing, just pulling him close. 

And Ben is warm and soft, feels foreign yet comfortable in his worn, faded denim jacket, and Marcus leans into him fully, back of his head to Kissel’s shoulder. 

“If anyone asks, the equipment kept falling down on ya,” Ben whispers into his ear, amused, cheeky, and Marcus wheezes, breaks into a smile. 

“Sure thing,” he agrees. He still feels like he’s dreaming, swinging vicariously from the nervous unease of high strangeness to the calm, detached drop that comes with any moment like this, acting impulsively in a dark car with your best friends on the way back home, still a little cocked and too sweaty to be fully human. 

They’re both quiet and when Travis looks back to check if he’s safe to switch lanes, it’s clear he sees them, cuddled into each other like tired sunflowers, heads drooping, and Marcus’ catches his eye for a split second, but Travis doesn’t say anything, just turns away to focus on the road. Marcus is relieved. He doesn’t need a big fuss over whatever it is he and Ben are doing, have Henry scare Ben into a corner with celebratory whoops, going on about how Marcus wants to shag him. 

For once in his life, things are calm and unquestioned. 

  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
  


“Okay, if anyone needs to piss, now is the time to do it,” Travis pipes about a half hour later. He flicks on his turn signal and pulls them into the parking lot of a McDonalds. 

Marcus blinks his eyes open, not yet having fallen back asleep. Ben had started tracing his index finger along the ridge of the seam on the thigh of his jeans and Marcus hadn’t protested, a warmth seeping into him with every light touch. “Oh yeah, I gotta go,” he says. He’s a little sobered, but he still sounds, to himself, hoarse and syruped with alcohol. 

“Make that two of us,” Ben adds, popping the door handle. 

They go in together and Marcus can feel Henry’s excited eyes burning holes into the back of his head from the car as Ben holds the door open for him. Inside is brightly white and Marcus knuckles his eyes, shocked by the startling light, and he and Ben head towards the men's room. 

It’s no surprise it’s empty. It’s some ungodly hour of the morning and Marcus only saw two other people sitting down to eat. 

They stand three urinals apart. Marcus finishes first and zips up, goes to wash his hands. He looks at himself in the mirror, in his red flannel and Charles Manson shirt, dark hair messy and flopping over his forehead, eyes ringed with those forever dark circles. 

Marcus’ hand is waiting expectantly under the automatic soap dispenser when a large form presses up against him and he chirps, “Jesus  _ Christ _ , Ben, give a man a heart attack like that!”

Ben’s hands curl around his hips, fingers threading through the belt loops of his jeans, and he drops his head down to Marcus’ shoulder, breathes in like he’s smelling him. “Didn’t mean to scare ya.” 

Marcus is scared, though, by all of this: Ben touching him, the fact that they’d been sitting like that in the car. His heart is thumping like a panicked rabbit caught in a snare, and he drops his hand away from the soap dispenser, continues washing like nothing is happening. “You’re drunk,” is what he thinks to say. 

Ben laughs and reaches around to wash his own hands under the same stream of water Marcus is, says heartily, “By  _ Kissel _ standards, I’m sober.” His large body is still pressed to Marcus’ back, not stepping away. 

“You never act like this when you’re sober,” Marcus points out. They’re both just standing there now, with wet hands. 

“Like what?” The question is asked with a smile, but once it’s in the air, it hangs funny, loaded. 

_ Gay _ , Marcus could say, but it feels too forward and cruel, so he says, “Affectionate.” 

Ben stops inhaling and presses the smallest, gentlest kiss to Marcus’ neck, nosing down to his collar and kisses there, too. “Well. Tell me to stop then.” 

Marcus squirms and his heart is leaping again, less afraid now. “I… I will…,” he huffs. “If you cross a line.” 

A line has already been crossed, Marcus knows. They’re standing there in a McDonald's bathroom, for Christ’s sake, not even bothering to move their actions to the privacy of a stall while Travis and Henry wait for them in the car. That’s a line, somehow, pressing the boundaries of friendship, but Marcus feels wired, doesn’t want to stop. 

Ben hums and continues his kissing, under Marcus’ jaw, behind his ear, and Marcus gasps, presses back into Ben, grabbing his wrists and guiding his still-damp hands down between his thighs. Ben gropes blindly at him, palming the front of his crotch. 

“ _ Fuck _ ,” Marcus hisses, grinding against Ben’s palm desperately. This is definitely a moment of high strangeness: how it feels so normal to let Ben touch him, the fractal light of the fluorescents above them bathing their bodies in a sickly white, mirror glinting silver in front of them, the faint Avril Lavigne playing from a speaker somewhere above them. 

Ben hums again then grazes his teeth over Marcus’ neck, gets him to gasp when he bites fully and sucks, aiming to leave a noticeable if small hickey. Marcus feels Ben’s erection through the two layers of denim between them, poking up against his ass, and the feeling excites him, knowing Ben is turned on, too, and somehow, he’s the one doing that. 

And just as quickly, Ben is shuffling away, pulling back to inspect his handiwork of the already purpling splotch on Marcus’ neck, and he says, “Guys are waiting for us. We shouldn’t keep them so long.” 

Marcus wants to scowl or maybe cry, a cocktail of teenage emotions. He looks at Ben, his goofy smile, his ridiculous mustache. “Yeah,” he agrees, because there’s no way he’s going to beg for a handy from Ben Kissel in a McDonald's bathroom and he doesn’t want to press his luck with this.

Ben leaves first and Marcus trails behind him like a lost puppy, slinks off to the car when Ben stands in line to order a McChicken. He ducks in quick, not wanting Henry or Travis to see the hickey or the pink blush coloring his cheeks, slumps in the back so he’s leaning on the pile of equipment, as far from Ben’s side as he can get.

Henry makes a joke about Ben’s appetite when he comes out to join them in the car, but the teasing dies down when Ben holds out a brown paper bag of fries and nuggets. Ben settles in, takes a bite of his sandwich, glaces over at Marcus. He smiles softly and pats the seat next to him, shakes a box of fries as an offering. 

Marcus snorts and rolls his eyes, but scoots over regardless, accepting the fries and also the hand that goes to his hip, pulls him closer to Ben’s side. 

  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  


It’s close to 4 am when Marcus unlocks his apartment door and zombie-walks himself to bed, slumps down on his mattress without even bothering to peel off his jeans or kick off his tennis shoes. He’s already got the start of a headache brewing, figures a few hours sleep in his own bed for the first time in over a month might quell it. 

He’s on the edge of being dead to the world when his phone pings with a text notification. Marcus groans, fishes his phone from his pocket with one eye propped open. 

**Ben** :  _ We should tak tomorrow.  _

Marcus reads it twice. 

**Marcus** :  _ Sure thing, Ben. We’ll tak tomorrow.  _

Even with the joking typo, Marcus, like a dog predicting an earthquake before it happens, has a feeling something is about to change. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took so long to get out :<
> 
> got some good plans for the next few chapters so hopefully i can buckle down and crank em out
> 
> lmk what you think here or talk to me on tmblr @ficfucker


	4. the sun comes up (and i'm all washed out)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the wash is out, it's hanging up  
and all i have is nothing  
nothing to do, nothing to say  
i think i must be dreaming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> angst ahoy

Marcus wakes up with an unearthly headache, jeans plastered to his legs like an unfortunate second layer of skin, and he makes his way to the bathroom, pisses, brushes his teeth. He runs a shower and shucks off his clothes, which are stale with wear and the tang of day-old beer. 

Standing naked in front of his sink mirror, Marcus looks at himself, cranes his jaw up to inspect the gorgeous little hickey Ben has left behind. A wonderful crushed red-ringed with purple. 

He presses his thumb into it just to feel the small aching swell at the touch then gets in the shower, soaps down. The warm water feels wordlessly good, the comfort of being in his own bathroom, knowing where shit is for once. His headache has made it over the hump, is less a bone-deep pain and more a quiet thrum, by the time he shuts off the water and steps out, swings a towel around his waist. 

He finds his phone, plugs it in. He'll get dressed first, fix something to eat (probably pickle breakfast since he's been gone for over a month, though it looks like Jackie has kept her promise to upkeep his apartment in his absence). No new texts from Ben, or Henry and Travis for that matter, so their talk can wait. 

Marcus pulls on a Gein shirt, decides he can bum around boxers. It feels good to be home, can finally hang around in joggers instead of jeans, can get caught up on research and reading from the comfort of his apartment. And mixed with that is the excited feeling that him and Ben are going to be something. 

In his shocked desperation, Marcus figures he can handle being fuck buddies for a while. No need to attach a label, he thinks as he peers into his cabinets, hunting for the reserve of pickles he keeps packed at room temperature for moments like these. Rushing into things and considering a relationship, love or whatnot, would probably scare poor Ben off. He doesn't need to know that Marcus has been jocking so hard. 

They can keep it casual. Marcus is more than okay with that plan. 

He finds his dills, screws off the top, and eats them right there at the kitchen sink, in his underwear. Ben has hooked a real catch. 

Marcus has his pickle breakfast and downs some water, takes an Advil, goes back to his bedroom to check his phone. A text from Henry, a tagged photo on Instagram from Ben. 

**Henry** :  _ In the midst of his drunken yammering KISSEL CONFESSED LAST NIGHT I KNEW YOU'D MAKE A MOVE ON HIM YOU SLY DOG YOU _

**Marcus** :  _ Confessed what exactly?  _

**Henry** :  _ That yall were macking on each other or something idk. You know how he is when he’s drunk.  _

Marcus snorts, quirks up into an amused smile. He surely does know how Ben is when he’s drunk.  _ Affectionate _ . Blurred images of Ben in that gleaming McDonald’s bathroom flicker through his brain like a reel film, face peering over his shoulder to kiss at his throat, memories bleached with alcohol and a vague dreaminess. 

**Marcus** :  _ He’s a terrible date then, kissing and telling like that.  _

Henry doesn’t reply right away so Marcus switches over to Instagram, is greeted by a picture of him, Henry, and Ben seated cross-legged on the white sheets of a hotel bed, all wearing matching grins. They’d done a Relaxed Fit episode that day, got comfy on Ben’s bed and joked around, talked about what’d they done and seen and eaten. 

Ben’s caption is: _ Had fun with my boys but glad to be home!!! _

Something stirs happily in Marcus, a dog tail thumping at the possessive “ _ my _ ”, to be Ben’s boy, even if it’s meant platonically. He clicks like, spends another minute lingering on the picture. 

Another text from Henry pings over. 

**Henry** :  _ What do expect from a beer ape? Manners? If you do, reconsider getting in his pants. Big guy just woke up and let me tell you: it ain’t pretty.  _

**Marcus** :  _ He’s a terrible date and you’re a terrible wingman. I thought you were going to make a big show of match-making us, not turning me off from him.  _

**Henry** :  _ I’m just being honest, man! Letting you know what you’re getting yourself into before it’s too late! There’s no escape from a Kissel death grip! _

Marcus scoffs a laugh, shakes his head. 

**Marcus** :  _ Frankly, I think I’d like a Kissel death grip quite a lot. _

He adds a wink to be extra cheeky, get Henry going over the idea that his two best friends are together now, in some capacity, which from what Marcus has seen, delights Henry to no end. 

  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  


Marcus is reading Harold Schechter’s A to Z Encyclopedia of Serial Killers for probably the 12th time, more for his own indulgence than to gather research, when his phone starts buzzing and ringing from his bedroom. “Hup.” He sets his book down on the coffee table and pads into the room, sees his phone alit with a picture he’d taken as Ben months ago on a beach in California, looking extremely Sasquatchian. 

Marcus answers cheerily with, “Parks Mortuary and Crematorium, how can we serve you or a loved one today?” 

Ben chuckles dryly and he says, with such a softness, “ _ Marcus… _ ” that something wilts inside Marcus, gripped suddenly with an acute panic. 

He shifts the weight in his hips, digs his nails into his palm. “Yes, Ben?” he asks, his voice hushed. Marcus sits on the very edge of his bed. Something inside him knows this conversation is going to end poorly. Ben’s tone… He knows what Ben sounds like hungover and this is different, there was a pitiful lovingness to how Ben said his name, that one word, like he was a mother about to tell a child the family dog died. 

“Marcus, uh…,” Ben clears his throat. “Gosh, okay…” He breathes out and Marcus flinches. 

“Yeah, Ben?” he asks with some pressing to his voice. 

“I think we should… slow down. Slow down with what we’ve been-been  _ playing _ at lately. The uh, the cutesy stuff.” 

Marcus’ heart throbs like a bad tooth and he shifts on his bed, tucks his thumb under his index so it rests over his middle finger, and squeezes harshly, his knuckles going white, the tip of his thumb reddening. “Slow down?”

“Yeah, I mean. I was drunk and you were… you were drunk and-” Ben laughs like he’s being held at knifepoint. “We got carried away and I-I don’t regret it…! I don’t, Marcus, but… I think we both need some time to think about what we’ve uh, what we’ve been doing.” 

“Right. What we’ve been doing,” Marcus repeats hollowly. 

“And I mean, I know everyone jokes about it, what, with Eric and all, but I’m not… I’m not gay.” 

Marcus snorts. He doesn’t mean to, but it comes out like a horse huffing, a “holy shit” kind of caught off guard snort. “Right. Yeah. I… We know you’re not, Ben.”

“Right. So…” Ben sounds like he’s finishing up a very tense work meeting. “I just don’t want to ruin things between us or cause a scandal or muck up the podcast.”

“I know.” Marcus’ throat is tight. 

“So. Uh. I’ll see you in the studio then?” 

“Uh. Yeah, man. The studio. Remind Henry to uh, to send me his outline notes so I can… plan accordingly.” 

“Okay. I will,” Ben says. “Okay… Bye, Marcus.”

“Bye, Ben.” 

And with that, the line goes dead and it’s so much less than what it would be if it were a landline, no receiver to dramatically slam down on, so Marcus just holds his iPhone limply in his hand, showing him the timestamp of the conversation, showing him Ben’s smiling, unaware his picture is being taken face. 

Venom flares up inside him like a match being struck. Marcus imagines all the things he could have spit out. 

_ Cutesy stuff? Like groping my dick in a public bathroom? You consider that cutesy? _

_ Not gay? I mean, I’m not pushing you, man, but what we did seemed just a little bit on the fuckin’ edge of being gay.  _

_ You know, Ben, I think we mucked up the podcast when I agreed to do it in the first damn place.  _

But it dissolves quickly and Marcus is left with his sad little aching heart and the tears well up and sit on the brims of his eyelids for such a long time, he thinks they’ll recede before spilling. They don’t: the tears come down a minute later in fat, rolling drops that gather at his chin and patter onto his boxers, leaving dark spots of wet, and Marcus sits like that for a long moment, silent and quivering and still pressing onto his thumb, which has gone completely purple now. 

  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Marcus does what he did last time he went through a major break up. 

He digs out his framed Baphomet picture and sets it on the floor in the living room, where he stares intensely down at it. The spearing, black horns, the exposed breasts, the steady eyes, the hands balanced so perfectly.

Marcus sets up his record player and puts on his favorite Cream album, Wheels of Fire, pulls the needle back to White Room over and over while he smokes countless cigarettes. He hasn’t had an actual smoke in years now, but he’d thrown on jeans and shoes long enough to run down to the corner store and get a few packs, bring them up to the apartment so he could puff his heart out. 

_ you said no strings / could secure you / at the station  _

Marcus doesn’t cry. He didn’t cry much during his last break up. Had just sat and looked at Satanic imagery and fucked around with chaos magic until the wound scabbed over and he could ignore it enough to go about his life. 

_ i walked into / such a sad time at the station / as i walked out / felt my own need / just beginning  _

Marcus looks away from the picture frame, leans his head back on the couch. Smoke unwinds from his mouth, uncurling looser and looser until it dissipates completely into the air. 

“Benjamin Kissel,” he mutters around the butt. “Fuckin’ Benjamin Kissel, of all people.” 

His heart couldn’t bet on a worse racehorse. 

But it does. 

Marcus reaches up and presses his thumb into the dull hickey on his neck so it throbs sweetly. 

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhhhh thanks @ ben kissel for that video you posted of you lifting marcus on instagram today you really kicked me in the ass to get back into dogtruth
> 
> sorry this is short!! :(( 
> 
> next chap should be longer!


	5. mourning glory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> go back! get out of the woods! get out of the woods!  
it is only the beginning - it is only the beginning - it is only the beggining   
stop the tape

Marcus doesn't reply to Ben's texts the next morning. Ben must say something to Henry, who, to Marcus' knowledge, is still at Ben's apartment, because Marcus receives a "Jesus, man, sorry Kissel pulled that on ya”, but Marcus doesn't ask just how much Ben said, how he phrased it, despite the bubbling curiosity, so he shoots back something vague and placating and changes the topic, asks Henry to share his notes doc with him. 

He's in no position to drag himself up and go into the studio, but the podcast demands it. He really hasn't needed Henry's help with this episode, but his notes have a few good tidbits Marcus has somehow glazed over. He copies and pastes a few lines from Henry's doc to his own then shares it back to Henry with a few leading comments in the margins. 

Marcus wonders if the audience will notice there's been a blip on the radar, as if through audio alone they'll be able to detect his reemerging cigarette habit. They don't have as solid a script as they usually do. They'll probably get shit for it on Reddit or Henry will get a DM on Instagram calling him a sell-out. It makes him feel kinda cheap, how loose everything is, makes him feel like it's 2013 again and they're recording in a closet in the basement of an in use Mexican restaurant. 

He'd rather crank out an episode than be behind schedule, though. 

So, Marcus rolls on some deodorant and gets dressed into a plaid, some blue jeans, and his least ratty tennis shoes, and packs his shit into his bag. He includes a carton of cigarettes and after a moment of consideration, he grabs his Baphomet portrait, too, tucks that in safely behind his books. 

He'll need strength from whichever corner he can get it from today. Ben and Henry will both be in the studio. For the first time in months. And Marcus will be showing up smelling like ash and nicotine, clearly sleepless by the dark circles he's rocking, showing up with a yellow fading hickey from Ben Kissel himself. 

He swipes his keys off the counter and takes a long look at his apartment, notably his stack of records near the player, then closes the door to brace the inarguably long day ahead. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


Marcus shoves his key into the receiving hole and it turns too loosely. He nudges the door open and Henry's there, a chair pulled up to the table, laptop open, his copy of the A to Z Encyclopedia of Serial Killers displayed neatly, the one Marcus got him a few months ago. Marcus was half hoping Ben and him would show up together and therefore be late, giving him one moment more alone. 

"Heyyy, Henry," he says softly, paining a smile. 

"Hey, Dogmeat." Henry purses his lips. He's using that voice Ben used over the phone, cautious, broken porcelain. "How ya holdin' up, chief?" 

Marcus laughs a breath, sits down across from him. He unpacks like today is any other day. In truth, he'd woken up and his mind had been rocketed back to that stupid fucking phonecall and he’d bristled with tears, smoked a cigarette down to the filter there in his underwear without bothering to open the windows. His stomach’s been all in knots, too, too sick to even look at pickles or chips or candy. 

“Keepin’ on,” he answers. He plugs in his laptop. “Uh, on the notes. You wanna cover the zodiac signs part and maybe you can get the motive statistics while I cover uhhh, military service and North American ratios?” It sounds fancy, how he phrases it, like they’re part of a behavioral study for the FBI, but it’s all just numbers on a sheet. Marcus is trying to deflect.

It doesn’t work. Henry is sharp enough to not acknowledge what Marcus has just offered. 

“Hey, man. You can talk to me, you know? We’re not recording yet, we don’t have-”

“Henry, I just want to-”

“I know, I know, you’re  _ programmed _ to cope with researching serial killers and all that shit, we’re  _ real _ proud of your habits, Marcus, but y-you smell like a Great Aunt’s ashtray and me and the collective  _ know _ you quit smoking cigarettes like, 3 fuckin’ years ago.” 

Marcus plops down in his chair, runs a hand down his face. “Read me like a book, why don’t ya.” Henry should be part of a  _ real _ behavioral study if he can gather all that from the few minutes they’ve been together, but on second thought, cigarettes are an easy odor to spot. 

“Tell Uncle Zebrowski what _really_ happened, before Kissel bumbles in and we sit around like middle schoolers refusin’ to talk about it, who, Kissel, by the way- I don’t know _what_ the fuck went down between y’all, not more than what this _Polish_ _intuition_ can deduce, but Ben looked like the walking dead, that’s why he ain’t in yet.” Henry takes a long, loud sip of his coffee, licks the dew off his mustache, then continues, “I mean, he’s usually late, but I couldn’t pry him up with a goddamn _crowbar_ this morning. I figured I could at least- I could get some one on one between us if he’s comin’ on his own.” 

Marcus sighs. He takes out his framed Baphomet and sets it up near his laptop. 

Henry gives him a look, raising his eyebrows. His eyes dart over to the pentagram blanket they have hung pinned on the wall like a tapestry, the one a fan sent some years back. Baphomet’s goat head is printed in the middle. “Returning to the holy path of Baphomet, huh? Must be deeper in this than I thought.” 

Marcus slumps back in his chair, deflating. “We weren’t even- There was never a  _ thing _ between us. Ben never said… it wasn’t even  _ dating _ . We were just foolin’ around. Stupid kid shit.”

“Kid shit enough to wreck you like this?” Henry presses. He jabs a finger at the cross-legged Baphomet photo. “You’ve got our dark lord and savior in your backpack, Marcus, that doesn’t sound like foolin’ around to me.”

Marcus wants a cigarette. If Henry wasn’t here, he’d pull out his pack. “I don’t wanna talk about it. What’s there to talk about? Ben called it off, man. We’re done. It’s fine… fine.” 

“Marcus, last time you were this screwed up you’d broken up with a girl of a few years.” There’s a break, a beat like a door opening for Marcus to argue or agree. When he doesn’t attempt either approach, Henry adds, “Kissel really got in them guts and gave ‘em the ole Richard Chase, didn’t he?” 

That actually gets Marcus to laugh. He shakes his head and opens his notes, pulls up a PDF he’s been citing for the last couple days. “Feels like I’m a Jack the Ripper special,” he mutters. 

“Are you goin’ to allow me to yank back the curtain, Dogmeat?-”

“Nope.” 

“-or am I stuck like a fuckin’ civilian looking in here?” Henry sputters, frustrated. “I’m a bonafide fuckin’ Love Guru and you’re wasting a good opportunity!” His voice is raised now, but it’s not harsh, just loud and needy in that way it gets when he’s exasperated. 

Marcus manages a smug smile and says, “Someday, and that day may  _ never _ come, I will call upon you to do a-”

“Don’t you fuckin’  _ dare _ Godfather me right now, Marcus, I  _ swear _ to-” 

Marcus proceeds without missing a beat, “-service for me. But until that day, accept that I want to be left the fuck  _ alone _ and get on with my job.” 

Henry fakes a scowl, crosses his arms over his black button-up. It’s printed with bananas. “Wasted opportunities, Marcus Parks. Wasted. Opportunities.” 

“As above, so below,” Marcus answers. He pulls a folder out of his bag. 

“That doesn’t even fuckin’  _ apply _ here,” Henry mutters, sounding like a sulking child. 

Henry realizes the conversation is dead after a moment of easy silence and goes through some of the pages he’s bookmarked, mentions that he's got one more night on the East Coast before he’s back in California for the foreseeable future, and Marcus busies himself with the menial but necessary tuning of equipment. 

Ben comes in some minutes later, tardy by about 15 minutes, and he mumbles a general greeting, then sits perpendicular to Henry and Marcus, sets his coffee on the table. “Uh…” He clears his throat and tries for a genuine smile. His hair is mussed. “You and Henry gettin’ back into that magic stuff again?” He gestures towards Baphomet, whose silent goat eyes are trained directly on him. 

“Nah,” Marcus answers. His stomach has dropped, seeing Ben in person. He ignores it. “I thought the studio was gettin’ a little too  _ sparse _ of the macabre.” 

“Oh.” Ben doesn’t buy it, but he doesn’t press the topic. He has no bag, no books or pages prepared for the day. He just pulls on his headphones and jiggles his leg. 

Henry catches Marcus’ eye and he puts his index and middle finger under his chin, thumb sticking out, mimes a blast and sags, his eyeballs rolling into his skull dramatically. Marcus snorts and slips on his own headphones. 

They’ve never been this tense or quiet. It’s like they’re in church. 

“Rolling,” Marcus announces. 

“Helllooo, everyone. This is the Last Podcast on the Left. I’m your host, as always, Ben Kissel, here with Marcus Parks.” Ben pauses to allow Marcus a word in. 

“Hey!” he bites out, quick, trying to feign a cheeriness. 

“And here with us in studio, first time in a long time, is our special friend, Henry Zebrowski.” 

Henry scoffs. “Special friend? What am I? An alley cat you’re too afraid to fall in love with?” 

Henry doesn’t mean it, to bring up the fear of commitment, but it’s out in the air now. Marcus and Ben both visibly stiffen and it annoys Henry, how childish and stubborn everyone is being, how robotic shit sounds. He ignores it, plows on with, “Fuck it. Kissel, you could never handle all this. Anyway. What we got on deck for today, Dogmeat?” 

Marcus smiles tiredly. He’s only been looking at Henry and the Baphomet portrait since pressing record. “Well. A topic that is surely going to interest all you math and statistic nerds out there.”

“The Bundy on his best day types,” Henry interjects. 

Marcus nearly wheezes. “Yes. The analyticals. The ones looking to place bets. We’re going to be discussing the various statistics, conclusions, and comparative data drawn from serial killers as a collective, with some overlap of other types of similar crimes, like mass murder, spree killings, and even just extreme one-kill crimes like-like cannibalism.” 

“Must be a long rap sheet,” Ben adds. 

Marcus nods, not looking at him. “Oh, yeah. Henry and I- We’ve got our work cut out for us here. I’ve looked at more T charts in the last day and a half than I did in all of college.” 

Things flow into what seems like a current of normalcy. Henry and Marcus shoot back and forth between data sheets, listing off kill counts by the decades and making guesses as to what triggers a big crop up. Henry is delighted when he gets to discuss zodiacs, making bold claims about the state of Pisces and Geminis as a population that will probably get them some interesting fan mail in response. Ben makes his doofy comments every couple of minutes, but it’s clear how disengaged he is. Marcus thinks he himself sounds distant, even with his straining effort. He hopes it translates well to audio. 

Politics, as it could have been guessed, is what gets Kissel into the pit. 

“What we see most often is homosexual killers, think uh, Dahmer and Gacy, mass shooters, and dangerous cult leaders is a pattern of left leaning ideology, while heterosexual killers tend to vote Republican.”

“Fuckin’ shocker,” Henry laughs harshly. 

“Ridgway, BTK, and probably most notable, Bundy, are all recorded as being involved with or voting Republican parties. And if you’ve noticed  _ another _ trend to them, they all fall into the same corner: necrophile.”

Ben’s perked up. “And what does that say?” he asks a little flatly.

Henry jumps to answering before Marcus can even open his mouth. “That  _ every _ fuckin’ slimy,  _ Vasoline-slathered  _ Republican walkin’ the streets  _ right now  _ has at least one dead girl’s corpse shoved intoa freezer that they  _ -yoink- _ pull out and give it the ole  _ elephant trunk shovin’ _ .” 

Ben purses his lips tightly. “I know we’ve maligned a lot of groups before, but I think that’s a  _ bit _ far with this one, Henry.” 

“You didn’t have an issue when he said all Pisces are serial murderers,” Marcus points out.

Ben sighs. “That’s different and you know it.” 

Marcus bristles.  _ Is Ben seriously going to argue politics today?  _ He pipes up, adding, “One article claims uh, that  _ 80% _ of serial killers are Republican.” 

Henry hoots. Ben’s eyes get big, the most life Marcus has seen from him all day, and he closes his phone, sets it on the table, saying, “Show me. What article is claiming that?” 

It’s a bad source, Marcus knows it. He’d only bookmarked it to list as a funny little assumption someone had gathered, maybe share a few reader comments from back in 2010 arguing about the definition of Democrat and Republican. It’s a reason to rile Ben, though, and Marcus has never missed an opportunity to light Ben’s fire before, so he highlights a passage about the percentages and turns his laptop fiercely.

Ben squints and reads quickly. “It’s bullshit,” he mutters. “Who the hell even  _ posted _ this? 80% is much too high. Most of the general- looking at Americans as a whole, it’s nearly a 50-50 split for parties.” 

Henry snorts. “So what’s that say about Republicans? They’re all killers lying in wait?”

Marcus giggles. 

Ben sighs. “Say what you will, but Marcus  _ already _ told us left party voters are  _ astronomically _ more dangerous than-”

“What? Because they’re usually spree killers?” Marcus fires. He suddenly feels up in arms. Not to defend the name of a murderer or a political party, but because it’s transparent Ben’s arguing just to argue, to save skin on some comments they’ll get over a stupid Republican joke. “Should I fuckin’  _ remind _ you who’s on the Republican list already? Some of the most  _ prolific _ caught killers?” 

Henry’s clammed up now, opening his mouth at times to add something, but he shuts it just as quick. 

“Oh? And like  _ Manson _ is painting a good image of the ‘perfect Democrat’?” He slashes air quotes with his fingers.

Marcus raises his voice, digging his nails into his own palm under the table. “Fuckin’ Green River Gary, who confessed. More than.  _ 71 bodies himself! _ And Bundy! Infamous lady killer  _ Bundy _ was all over the right wing scene!” 

Ben’s nostrils flare. “Are you  _ forgetting _ Gacy and his 33 kiddies under the house all of a sudden?” 

Marcus practically fumes. His heart stutters in his chest. Anyone accusing him of forgetting such a well known killer as Gacy and his probable count is more than just insulting. It’s belittling. 

“Bundy had  _ 30-fuckin-5 _ confirmed victims,  _ Ben _ !” he explodes. Both his hands are balled up into fists now, his face flushed red. “And-and-and that’s only  _ confirmed _ ! Imagine what else  _ you _ and your _ Fox News boys  _ are up to that we ain’t caught onto yet.” 

“Hey, hey, hey,  _ easy _ there, Dogmeat,” Henry tries to pacify, but things are out of the box. It’s too late to backtrack. 

Ben’s face clouds angrily and he spits some rhetorical questions about Marcus being so morally aligned and politically aware when he’s the guy running around in Manson shirts with shelves full of dead animals, unplugging his headphones with more firmness than needed. He doesn’t have a bag to pack, so he just shoves his phone in his pocket and says, “We’ll try again some other time. Whoever wants to let the  _ fans _ know, be my guest.” 

And then he’s gone, door slamming behind him. 

At the table: Henry, Marcus, Baphomet, and Ben’s now-abandoned paper cup of coffee. 

Henry pushes his snapback away from his forehead to slap his palm dully against it. “Jesus Christ, you two,” he hisses. 

Marcus shoves his hand into his jeans pocket, pulls out his crumpled pack of smokes and lighter, and hastily shoves a cigarette between his lips. His heart rate is beating like a drum. They’ve been worked up like that in the past, but this is different. Ben looked both hurt and disgusted, his eyes darts. “Me? Ben had to fuckin’ shoulder his way into all that.” 

“Ben started it, Ben started it,” Henry whines in a gratingly childish voice. Henry slams his hands down on the table then points a finger sternly at Marcus, his face serious. “You two get your  _ shit _ straightened out. Have your little sleepover confessional party or sleep with each other and-and live with the regret or. Fuck it. I dunno. Exhaust your clenched-asshole gay panic or whatever this is and leave me out of it. We have a show to do and your fuckin’ reindeer games are getting in the way.” 

Henry proceeds to shove his books and laptop into his bag, his headphones still in a receiver, so he stumbles when he tries to walk away in his frenzy, bumping the table. 

Baphomet shifts a bit. 

Henry groans, mutters an obscenity, and tosses his coffee into the trash. At the door, he adds, his voice one shade softer, “I mean it, Marcus. I’m not foolin’ around with Last Podcast.” 

And for what feels like the millionth time in his life, especially in the past few months, Marcus is alone with his thoughts. His cigarette isn’t even sparked yet, so he just flicks his lighter and inhales deeply, dropping his head to the back of his chair and staring blankly at the ceiling. 

Once again, Baphomet’s eyes are on him when he starts to balloon with hot tears. This time, however, they spill over almost immediately, cutting two, thin lines across his cheeks. 

* * *

  
  


Marcus gets back to his apartment at 2 pm. Henry must have texted Travis to post on social media about the delayed media, because Twitter and Instagram have both been updated with a cookie cutter explanation about technical difficulties and lost audio. 

It nearly amuses Marcus. The phrasing, like it’s snuff that the State keeps locked up in a vault.

In reality, it’s Ben and Marcus shrieking at each other in rapid fire aggression that he can play on repeat if he so pleases.

Instead, he pulls off his jeans, slumps onto the couch, and watches Twin Peaks mindlessly, ignoring his phone as it buzzes from Henry and a few other non-podcast related contacts.

Ben doesn’t text him once. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof am i right 
> 
> i promise... something other than angst is coming


	6. learnin' to love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> g-g-gimme love gimme love gimme love

Marcus doesn’t even get a second in for a pick-up greeting before Henry is barking.

“You’re fuckin’ insufferable when you’re heartbroken, Parks. In-suff-erable. Think I wouldn’t call ya, huh? Won’t give you an earful ‘cuz I’m at Ben’s place? Well, let me tell you, Dogmeat. Big man’s out cold on the couch so you’re shit outta luck.”

“Henry.”

“I’ll wake him! I’ll wake the whole damn city! I’ll go out onto the stoop and scream at you if Ben don't like it!”

“Henry.”

“You don’t text Kissel back so now you give me the same treatment? I’ll…” Henry laughs dryly and Marcus can imagine with great detail the crazed yet somehow tired look in his eye he must have. “I’ll tell _Jackie_. You want that? I’ll lay it all on her and you know she’ll be busting down your door to confront this shit.”

Marcus groans. Hisses is more like it, presses air out from between his teeth. “Shut the fuck up, man. Jesus Christ, I know you’re trying to help, but you’re _not_.”

Henry gets quiet and sighs. “Look. I talked to Ben. He gave me the lowdown. Like, for real this time. About your whole McDonald’s thing and the-the ‘I’m not a homo’ phone call. Which, I don’t buy for a second, by the way.”

Marcus is too tired for all this, but he doesn’t hang up. “Yeah? What’s your evidence then.”

“His face when he brought it up.” Henry clicks his tongue. “I mean, he’d gotten a few in him, but it seemed—he looked all torn. He’s scared of somethin’ else. Fuckin’ it up between us. Which you guys are actively doing, just so you know. I dunno. Fear of commitment? It’s somethin’, man.”

Marcus gets up and pauses Twin Peaks, shuffles into the kitchen with Henry on speakerphone. It's 10 now and he's forgotten to eat anything. Henry's call at least motivates him to snoop halfheartedly around in the fridge. He comes up with a package of cold cut salami. He doesn't even bother to make a sandwich out of it: just stands there, peeling slice after slice off the cold wax paper with no pants on.

"Yeah? So what am I supposed to do about it? Let dead dogs lie."

"Quit nursin' your wounds. You haven't even shot your motherfucin' shot."

Marcus snorts. "So I'm just trustin' the Zebrowski gaydar here?"

“Trust the Zebrowski everythin’!” Henry huffs, then adds, “Look, I’m gone again in the morning and we have to get that episode in, so your window is closing here, Dogmeat. Text him. It’s the New Age, you can have a-a uh, a heart to heart through text or whatever. I don’t care how you do it. I’ll be out of Kissel’s hair first thing tomorrow. Come knockin’. We can record as soon as I land.”

Marcus rubs his index and thumb together absently. “Fine. Okay. We’ll talk. Then we’ll all hold hands and fuckin’ redo that botched ep. Got it, Henry. Sounds perfect.” There’s no meanness in him, only a stubborn, tired lilt.

There’s a long pause of quiet and Marcus isn’t sure what pushes him to talk, but he opens his mouth and the flood rushes out.

“It’s just weird, man, ‘cause he was suddenly so into me. Like, he-he sent me these pictures of him. In those stupid suits of his before the fuckin’ ghost show thing however long ago. And. We had dinner at his place before tour. It all seemed so…” Marcus trails off, resting his arms on the counter, his head on his arms so his hair flops down around his face. “So _dateish_. I dunno. And-and the physical shit! He was always the one instigating that!”

“So, he dipped a toe into the pool and realized it was quicksand. Fuckin’ Kissel scared himself with that gay shit and cock blocked both of you in a panic.”

Marcus snorts. He looks down at a crack in the tile. Everything is a hazy red from the glow the television is casting, a very David Lynch ambiance to it all. “And I'm supposed to soothe that? Or apologize? It’s his sexuality crisis, assumin' that's what this is about, not mine.”

“Yes, but _you’re_ the _center_ of it, Marcus.”

That anchors some rationality into place. Marcus sighs. "I am, ain't I?" he asks, resigned.

"Listen, man, we've all seen the jokes. About Ben being a closet queer. The wrestling obsession. The passes made at the basketball court. You don't think that pressure scares him? And I mean, c'mon, you're his best fuckin' friend, Marcus, who wouldn't be terrified of fuckin' that up?"

Marcus tries to joke, to alleviate some attention off him. "A sad day when you're the voice of reason."

"Just. Talk to him, okay? He cares about you. That's the truth of it."

"The final truth?"

That actually gets a snort out of Henry and it's enough that Marcus manages a smile. "Now that. _That's_ the _final truth_," he yips.

* * *

An anxiety pools in Marcus like hot acid. There's the distinct drag of a latch being undone and Marcus considers, for half a second, turning around and ditching. Instead, he stands his ground. He wiggles his toes in his shoes, looks at the carpet.

"Marcus."

Marcus looks up, smiles lopsidedly. He knows how stiff he must appear, awkward, disjointed. "Least you answered. Take that as a good sign."

Ben frowns. "Marcus, I—"

"Can we—Can we do this inside? Talk, I mean."

There's a moment of pause. A gap between them that stretches with a painful uncertainty as Ben's eyes flicker over Marcus. Weighing his options. Ben proves his softness and sighs, steps aside. "Yeah, get in here."

So Marcus enters with a mumbled "Thanks" and tries to calculate the best spot to have a heart to heart. The couch is close quarters. Not many other places to take up camp in the living room. Kitchen is the safest bet, so Marcus sits himself at the table.

Ben leans against the fridge. He kind of just studies Marcus for a moment, then says, his voice hushed, "Go on…"

Marcus swallows. His tongue feels like a gutted fish. "I talked to Henry. Last night. He made me… realize some things."

"Hopefully nothin' about the earth being flat."

Marcus perks up an inch. The situation isn't so terrible if Ben has the heart to poke fun. "Nah, not that. Not this time." Marcus licks his lips, tries to regain his footing. "Uhm. He pointed out that—that this situation is scary. And it is, innit? And-and I shouldn't be over here actin' like you owe me shit just 'cause we fooled around a couple times. And if you aren't ready or you just flat out don't wanna continue whatever it is—"

"We can't all be as brave and sexually liberated as you, Marcus Parks."

Marcus, full-steam rambling, doesn't hear what Ben has said and cocks his head to the side. "What?"

Ben exhales through his nose. "I mean, look at you, Marcus. Mr. I admit publicly that I'm into anal. Mr. I eat girls out during shark week. Mr. I'd fuck a real doll. Not everyone is so ready to dive headfirst into that kind of life."

Marcus blinks. He slows, says gently, "Yeah. Already went through my sexual panic and experiments. Henry made that clear to me, too."

"I shouldn't've—I was bein' foolish, acting the way I did, but between the way I was raised and the hate I got from fans back in the day and-and my brothers already being out… my goodness, is realizing you're hot for your co-host a fuckin' fright."

Something in Marcus' chest does a flip at that. He glances up and makes steady eye contact with Ben. "Not bein' ready for all that, it's not a crime." Marcus draws invisible patterns on the table top with his forefinger. "I don't wanna be the one pressurin' you, man, that's just fuckin' cruel."

"Think I got excited too quick."

Marcus smiles a little sadly. "I can forgive you for the serial killer politics if you're willin' to forgive me for bein' a fuckin' idiot about this whole deal."

"You know, Marcus, I think that's a solid trade. And I am—I'm sorry for fuckin' up the podcast. And not just 'cause Henry ripped me a new one."

Marcus snorts. "Me and you both."

"So what now? Shake hands?" Ben jokes. His voice is heavy with uncertainty.

"Actually, I figured as soon as Henry is landed and settled, we get that ep out."

The air cools to a level of normalcy comforting enough that Ben smiles, gives a nod. "You read the comments? Supportive, but if we delay a minute longer I think we're gonna get stuffed in the brazen bull."

Marcus returns the smile. "Agree to head to the studio soon as Henry gives us the green?"

"You betcha."

Marcus stands then stops. "Uh. We good?"

"Yeah. I mean, if you're good, I'm good."

"I'm good. Yeah, I'm good." Marcus rocks on his heels and hesitantly makes his way toward the door. He lingers. "Uhm. Is the door still open for me, Benjamin?"

Ben smiles, a dreary, rainy smile, but his dark eyes are fond. "We'll see how it goes, Marcus."

And for the time being, that's enough.

* * *

Marcus goes home feeling both relieved and hollow. The waters have settled, but are still uncharted. What the next step is, Marcus doesn't know. He figures he'll wait out the crisis of sexuality Ben is having and if the conclusion isn't what Marcus hopes for it to be, he'll live with the heartache.

Can't hold it against the guy. Identity is a fragile thing.

And besides that, Marcus loves Ben enough to do so from afar. To be Ben's friend, to be so close, is all Marcus could ask for.

* * *

Recording goes as well as it can, given the circumstances. Ben seems a bit tense, but he goofs around like any other day and Marcus riffs off him. They get through it without Henry making things uncomfortable. Marcus had warned him of the precarious nature of the situation via text and Henry kept his word. He doesn't bring it up, just mouth-farts and fake moans at any opportunity. Marcus sound adjusts and guides the flow. From time to time, he chances a look at Ben, feels his heart thunder in his chest.

When all is said and done, Henry logs off rather hastily. Marcus knows it's his way of forcing Ben and Marcus to be alone together.

"Travis and I will correct and upload tonight," Marcus says casually.

Ben slides his headphones off. "Lemme know when and I'll update on Instagram."

Marcus busies with packing up, keeps his head down. He wants to say something, but is afraid to push. They've established no boundaries which leaves Marcus in the dark. The pacing feels strained, though, so Marcus keeps quiet, gives Ben some air.

They discuss the upcoming Side Stories and new merch they have scheduled to drop. It's all very lax, but there's an energy between them now. Marcus focuses on Ben's mouth, his hands, wants another shot at things.

He's patient. He ushers Ben out and locks up, follows behind him down the stairs. They say their "See you later"s and part ways, and the hollow feeling in Marcus slowly fills with a warmth as he considers what to do next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this is short but figured something is better than nothing!


End file.
